


This Year

by CommonNonsense



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 07:40:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13026363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommonNonsense/pseuds/CommonNonsense
Summary: The holidays are not kind to those on their own. Hanzo, at least, has never been overly invested in this time of year--but McCree, as he often does, changes things, and when a mission sees them snowed in together on Christmas Eve, there is no way to avoid it.





	This Year

**Author's Note:**

> The most shameless holiday fluff to have ever been fluffed. 
> 
> With some angst.
> 
> But mostly the shameless fluff.

Hanzo has always been fond of the winter season, at least as much as one can be of a climate pattern.

Hanamura was positioned just so in Japan’s geography to receive a lovely amount of snow every year: enough to blanket the village in pillowy white, but not so much as to bury them under it as it did the northern regions. The well-manicured gardens of Shimada Castle, with their traditional wood-and-stone structures topped with snow and rimmed in ice, became picturesque sights like illustrations out of old books. He’d always found the cold to be preferable to the oppressive heat of summer, too, though he did not spend much time outdoors for anything but his training. Still, Hanzo looked back upon his winters growing up with a certain fondness.

He can’t help but think about his winters back home as he and McCree strike out into the fray, crunching through snow that nearly reaches their knees and watching more of the stuff fall and layer on the streets where, previously, there had been scarcely more than an inch. The flakes are deceptively small, but they fall in a great amount, and Hanzo can already see several inches have gathered, with more piling up with each passing minute.

Winters in Hanamura were enjoyable because they were bearable. Winters in Alaska were apparently nightmares.

“Now what I wanna know,” McCree says beside him, stomping through the snow with great frustration on his face, “is why Winston thought this was so damn important that he had to send us out here on Christmas Eve.”

“As I recall it, he had reason to believe that Talon was interested in things out here,” Hanzo says dryly. “I imagine that is somewhat more important than your desire to celebrate Christmas by getting drunk and singing carols to the rest of the base.”

“Well, that woulda been more productive than what we did here, which ended up being  _ nothing _ .”

Privately, Hanzo agrees. Their mission had been a simple scouting mission out in Fairbanks, Alaska, where Overwatch once had some non-essential facilities. They were primarily used as a waypoint, not equipped to keep soldiers or carry out operations, but Winston had worried nonetheless that Talon would take an interest in whatever may have been left behind, or co-opt the old facilities for themselves. However, the investigation had turned up nothing, which left Hanzo and McCree on the outside of civilization on Christmas Eve in a state not known for its warm winters. 

The facilities were on the edge of town, far enough away that a shuttle could slip in and out without the inhabitants becoming too suspicious. When they had first landed, there had been a bit of snow on the ground, but nothing to be concerned about the time. That had somehow changed during the course of a few hours, and the dark clouds overhead and flurry of falling flakes suggested worse. Hanzo shivers despite his heavy coat. He looks forward to dry clothes  and something warm and alcoholic once they get back to the Watchpoint. Perhaps he could convince McCree to join him for some warm  _ sake _ once they returned . . .

“Besides,” McCree continues, drawing Hanzo back to the conversation at hand, “you can’t act like you wouldn’t’ve enjoyed a few drinks and some songs, too.”

“I assure you, I would stop at the drinks.”

“Oh, you  _ say _ that, but I bet we’d get a few good songs out of you yet. You got the voice for it, and you aren’t half as dignified as you like to pretend once you’ve had a few.”

While Hanzo is processing the compliment buried under the insult, his comm gives a little beep in his ear. “ _ You guys alright out there? _ ” asks Winston, from what Hanzo imagines is a warm and comfortable post back at the Gibraltar Watchpoint. “ _ How’d it go? _ ”

“Not much,” McCree replies. “Didn’t find anything. We’re ready to get out of here. How far’s the shuttle?”

There’s a brief pause. “ _ About that, _ ” Winston says. “ _ So, uh. There’s been a slight change of plans. _ ”

McCree pauses immediately in the middle of the snowy field, and so does Hanzo. He is suddenly more grateful than ever for knee-high, steel-shelled boots. “What kinda change?” McCree asks suspiciously. 

“ _ There’s a pretty big storm bearing down on you guys. It’s going to be right on top of you in a few minutes. The shuttle can’t get in and out of that safely. _ ”

McCree groans. “You’re killin’ me here, big guy,” he says. “You tellin’ me we’re gonna be stuck here another day? Those old buildings were completely empty, there’s no way we can stay there.”

“And no lodgings in the city, either,” Hanzo adds. “Given the time of year.”

“ _ I know, I’m sorry. The storm looked like it would pass your location entirely at first, but it changed direction at the last second. There’s a safehouse right outside of Fairbanks that is still intact, as far as I can tell. It’s only a few miles from your current location. It might not be comfortable, but it’ll be a roof over your heads until we can get through that blizzard.” _

“And how long will that be?” McCree asks.

“ _ Uh. Probably not until the morning, to be honest. At least a good twelve hours, depending on how the storm goes. _ ”

“You gotta be kiddin’ me.”

Hanzo mutters his own swear. 

“ _ Sorry, gentleman, _ ” says Winston. “ _ But this was important to look into. I’ll send you guys the coordinates for the safehouse, and we’ll get you back home just as soon as we can. I think there are still a couple of trucks left in the garage where you are now. If you take one of those, it’ll be about twenty minutes to the safehouse. Should get there right before the storm hits too hard.” _

McCree and Hanzo both turn to look behind them. They had passed the garage some time ago--a five-minute hike from their current position, when the weather had been manageable. 

“Damn it,” Hanzo mutters.

“Yeah,” McCree replies, “that’s about how I feel.”

The truck, when they finally get to it some ten minutes later, is no warmer than outside. McCree keeps up a steady stream of complaints as he starts the truck with one trembling hand. “Gonna freeze our asses off at this rate,” he grouses. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are rosy with cold, and Hanzo spends just a moment longer observing this than he would like to admit before McCree pulls his serape up over his nose and mouth.

“I am not sure that is physically possible,” Hanzo replies. 

“Sure it is. You ever spend time in Switzerland?” Hanzo shakes his head, and McCree continues, “Back when Overwatch was still goin’ strong, I went up there to the Watchpoint with a few other fellas from Blackwatch. One of ‘em didn’t dress for the weather, we stayed out there doing some recon, and he damn near got frostbite all over. And I mean  _ all _ over. He spent the entire night in the medbay with heat packs on his ass and on his bits. Angie said he was lucky he got back in time or parts mighta started falling off.”

Hanzo bursts out laughing despite himself. “You do not expect me to believe that, do you?” he asks between chuckles.

McCree grins under the serape _. _ “It worked on your brother.”

Hanzo laughs louder. Of course it did. 

McCree cranks up the heating in the truck as high as it will go, but it still blasts them with cold air for a solid minute before it starts to warm. As he guides the truck out of the empty garage and onto the street, which is all but buried under the snow, he says, “Can you imagine if this damn thing had tires still? We’d never get out of here.”

“I still wonder if we will.” The truck lifts to a level shortly above the snow and glides across the frozen surface, but the levitation wells don’t seem to work quite as well against a layer of snow as they do against asphalt and hard ground. The truck skids a little as McCree guides it back toward the road, and any attempts to move faster than 10 miles per hour under the speed limit are met with resistance. That there is so little traffic in this part of town is a blessing, and probably indicative of the oncoming weather--everyone else more prepared for the snow than the two newcomers.

It seems to take hours, but finally, a small house appears on the edge of the snowy horizon, hugging the outskirts of Fairbanks. There are a few other houses dotting the landscape, some occupied and others as empty as the safehouse. The sun is close to setting now, threatening to take its meager warmth with it as it departs, and in the dim light the clouds overhead loom with a threatening presence. Upon opening the truck door, Hanzo and McCree are immediately assailed by icy winds, sharp like knives on their exposed faces, and snow that falls in a thick sheet and seeks out the smallest gaps in their clothing. The 30-foot hike into the house seems like an insurmountable trail designed to test their endurance, and by the time they reach the door, Hanzo has encountered enough snow to last him the rest of his life.

Hanzo stumbles into the safehouse first, shaking snow off of his boots. He hopes to step into blessed warmth, but instead he’s met by an equally frigid room. His breath comes in puffs of white despite being indoors, to his great dismay. Behind him, McCree swears as he stomps through the door, scattering chunks of snow on the threshold. 

“Alaska is a goddamn hell state,” he grumbles, slamming the door shut behind him. The room is quickly cast into a pale darkness. Hanzo fumbles for the lights, but when his fingers alight upon the switch, he finds that it does nothing at all. 

“No electricity,” he says, and McCree groans again. There is enough light through the windows to dimly light their way for now, but that will quickly change, and it does nothing for the freezing chill inside the house. 

“This really all you got for us, Winston?” McCree asks, kicking off his boots with more force than necessary toward the door.

“ _ Unfortunately. Sorry. The storm should pass by morning and we can get you out of there, but until then, you might be a little uncomfortable. _ ”

“Great.”

Hanzo double-checks the locks on the door, then turns to the room. The safehouse is spartan, undecorate except for the most basic of furniture. There’s a tiny futon in the middle of the room, situated across from a gated-off fireplace that may never have been used since its original construction, and a small stack of firewood beside it. A short hallway leads down to the bathroom, a storage closet, and a bedroom with two flat, gray mattresses. There is also a small kitchenette to the side of the main room, and when he turns on the tap, Hanzo is relieved to find that the water still runs. Everything is covered in a thick layer of dust, clearly untouched since Overwatch’s glory days, and glittering frost lines the windows and floors. Through the smudged windows, the snow already seems to be falling faster than when they arrived, and it shows no signs of stopping.

“Well,” McCree sighs, pulling his comm off his ear, “I guess this is home for the next twelve hours or so. Winston’s not sure how long the storm’s gonna go, but it probably won’t be safe for the shuttle to get in for awhile. He’ll let us know when the shuttle’s headed out.”

Hanzo groans, but there is a small, shameful part of him that is pleased by the news. Though the conditions are far from ideal, he cannot deny the appeal in being forced to share a space with McCree for half a day. It won’t mean anything in the end--he is not so foolish as to believe otherwise--but he can, at least, enjoy the one positive facet of an otherwise deeply unpleasant situation.

Hanzo opens one of the kitchen cabinets, then another, and a third. One cabinet holds a two sets of dusty dinnerware. The rest are empty, which is not surprising, but no less disappointing. “We will be without food until then, it seems,” he says.

“Figured. Well, we got at least one ration each I think, so . . .” McCree trails off, looking at something just above Hanzo. “Sorry, you still got a bit of--”

Without warning, he reaches out a hand and brushes something off the top of Hanzo’s head. Hanzo stiffens in alarm, but relaxes a fraction as a handful of snowflakes, still unmelted in the chilly safehouse, drift to the floor. McCree brushes his hand over Hanzo’s hair several times, then drags his thumb quickly across the shaved fuzz on the side of his head, freeing more flakes from his hair. Hanzo holds his breath and hopes the blush he can feel rising in his cheeks will be attributed to the cold. 

Oblivious, McCree takes back his hand. “I told you to wear a hat out here, but you didn’t listen,” he says. 

Hanzo plasters on a smirk to cover his shock. “I do not see how a cowboy hat is much better than going without,” he replies.

“Well, I got an image to uphold. And it’s still better than nothin’. You’re just stubborn.” McCree flicks one last clump of snowflakes off of Hanzo’s shoulder. “Either way, we gotta find a way to warm this place up or we’re gonna be in a for a real uncomfortable night. I’ll see if I can get a fire going if you wanna poke around, see if there’s anything else we can use here.”

Eager to put some distance between himself and McCree, Hanzo quickly agrees. 

A more thorough examination of the safehouse turns up two space heaters (utterly useless without electricity) and a couple of thin, gray blankets in the storage closet. Likewise, each of the beds has a set of folded bedding, from which Hanzo liberates the blankets and leaves behind the sheets. There is very little else to speak of in the entire house, and even less that will be of any use in the next ten or twelve hours. Resigned to an uncomfortable night, Hanzo stacks the blankets on top of each other and makes his way back into the living room. 

McCree has already managed to get a small fire going in the fireplace when Hanzo returns, although it flickers and sputters as though protesting its own existence. McCree frowns deeply at it as he shifts the logs and gently blows on the flames, prodding them into catching. He reaches into the fire with his metal hand as casually as anything and pushes a log atop another, and the flames below flare with the influx of oxygen. 

“There we go,” he sighs. He spends a moment kneeling by the fire, watching it build, and Hanzo also finds himself watching--not the fire, but McCree. The light from the flickering fire catches on the strong lines of his profile, highlighting his strong nose and jaw in gold, and casting a warm glow over his tan skin. He seems to lose himself to thought quickly, his gaze unfocused, mouth set in a slight frown. Hanzo’s fingers itch with the urge to reach out and touch, to brush aside McCree’s hair and trace lines down his firelit skin, to press into his space and--

Hanzo shakes his head sharply, pulling himself back to reality. Shame runs cold in his gut, tempering the warmth brought on by McCree. How is he to make it through a night alone with McCree if he cannot even look at him without becoming a lovesick wreck? 

This is no different from any other day, he reminds himself sternly. That it is nearing Christmas does not change the fact that McCree is his trusted friend, and he will not jeopardize that because he is unable to control himself. Regardless of the timing and the situation, today is no different than it has been every day for the past eight months. 

Even if that shameful, hopeful part of him begs it to be otherwise.

“You find somethin’?” McCree asks, and Hanzo is abruptly aware that he has been standing still for several long moments. 

He clears his throat. “Yes,” he says, and sets the supplies down on the futon. “A few blankets, though not much else. This safehouse clearly has not been used in some time."

McCree holds out a hand for the blankets Hanzo offers.  “Shit, this is cold. Don’t know how much the fire’s gonna do.”

“We will survive.”

“Yeah, but I ain’t gonna enjoy it.” McCree shrugs off his serape, then his breastplate and his chaps, leaving his gear in a pile beside the futon. The serape goes back around his shoulders like a cloak, followed by one of the blankets. “Of all the places to get stuck. For the holidays, even.”

Hanzo moves to sit in front of the fire, draping two of the blankets over his own coat. He opts to sit on the floor instead of on the futon, putting himself those few precious inches closer to the fire. The temperature is already below freezing and will likely drop another ten or twenty degrees as night settles in; the fireplace will probably not be enough to warm the entire building. He leans up against the futon and pulls the blankets tight around himself, shivering still while he waits for the heat of the fire to build. 

Before he sits, McCree digs through his gear and comes up with his trusty flask: a worn thing, scratched and slightly dented but nonetheless reliable enough that he has owned it for as long as Hanzo as known him. He sticks it in the fireplace just out of reach of the flames, then goes to dig through the kitchen cabinets and comes back with two of the ceramic mugs. A minute later, he retrieves the flask and pours a measure of warm whiskey into each mug, and holds one out in Hanzo’s direction.

“Well, it ain’t much, and it’d be better if we had a mixer,” McCree says, “but it’s somethin’. Merry Christmas, I guess.”

Hanzo chuckles, reaching out from the cocoon of blankets to take the mug. The warmth of the fire radiates from the ceramic and bleeds into his hand, and the sharp scent of the whiskey is both somehow bracing and comforting. He takes a sip and it burns pleasantly on his palate and down his throat, warming him from the inside.

“Thank you,” he says. “I think this makes the night almost bearable.”

“It certainly don’t hurt.” McCree leans back against the dingy couch, takes a deep draught of his own drink, and sighs contentedly. “Can’t say this is the worst Christmas I’ve had, but I’ve definitely had better.”

Hanzo laughs a little into his cup. “What was the worst?”

McCree’s mirthful smile twists with unhappiness. He doesn’t answer for a long moment. “To be honest, the last several of ‘em have been spent gettin’ black-out drunk in whatever bar would have me,” he says. He gives a dry laugh. “S’pose they’re all tied.”

Others might have been startled by the answer, but Hanzo, no stranger to lonely nights with no company but a flask of  _ sake _ , simply nods.

McCree takes another long sip from his cup, then says, “What about you, then? Or do you even do Christmas in Japan?”

“We do. It is different, and it is not quite as large a production in many ways, but we do.” Hanzo turns his gaze to the fire, watching the flickering flames and the crackling embers. “I do not know if there truly was a worst. We celebrated a little as children, but as we grew older, we did not bother. Christmas Eve is much bigger, and that is a little different.”

“How so?”

“It is a more . . .  _ romantic _ holiday. More like Valentine’s Day is for you. You are expected to spend the time with a significant other, if you have one.” Hanzo pointedly does not meet McCree’s gaze. “Most gift-giving is between couples, rather than friends and family. Sometimes close friends, but still not as frequently. As I am sure you can imagine, I have had other priorities in the last few years.”

McCree grins. “Well then,” he says. “Guess that makes gettin’ stuck out here on Christmas Eve ourselves a little more special.”

Hanzo snorts, covering the pang of hurt that lances through his gut. “It was not intentional, I assure you.”

“Well, you can be like that, but I for one am  _ honored  _ to be your date.” 

Hanzo rolls his eyes, and McCree laugh. Hanzo hides his disappointed anger with another drink from his cup.

It isn’t McCree’s fault, of course. McCree does not know that Hanzo has thought of such a scenario a dozen times now. As the holidays approached, Hanzo had been keenly aware, and in spite of himself he could not help but think of what it might be like to spend them with McCree. He has never cared much for Christmas or anything around it before. There had been lonelier days in his past, nights when he wished for someone at his side, but those thoughts had always been quickly dismissed. He had no time for the frivolity of something like a relationship as a young adult, and once he was older--well, there was simply no reason to even think of it then. 

But McCree was an exception, something different. Hanzo himself was different than he had been all those years ago. He is not so foolish as to think that his desires will come true, that he is inherently worthy of such things, but it seems just a little less impossible than it might have in years past. 

There is a gift for McCree carefully hidden in his gear. He has been too afraid to give it, though he knows he should not be. McCree would not read the gesture as anything romantic--but then again, that in itself stung enough make Hanzo hesitate. Either risk showing his hand or have it overlooked entirely--he wasn’t sure yet which was worse. There was no winning, so the gift stayed where it was until he could make up his mind. 

“You ever celebrate it with anyone at all?” McCree asks. “Wouldn’t normally ask, but I can’t imagine you picking up a date and goin’ out.”

Hanzo shakes his head. “No, I have not. Even for those brief times I attempted to date someone, it was always at another time of the year. Genji was much more interested in the holidays than I was. I cannot remember a year he did not have a date after he turned fifteen.”

“That sounds right.”

“Unfortunately. What was it like for you? It seems to be a much bigger holiday in America.”

“It was, yeah. Stores would start selling their Christmas shit on Halloween if we didn’t also like Halloween so much.” Hanzo laughs, and McCree gives a wry grin. “I dunno. I guess it was all standard Christmas stuff. We’d go out and get the tree at the beginning of December. Didn’t have a lot of family nearby but we’d still do a big dinner Christmas night. Did all the gifts in the morning. Though once I stopped believin’ in Santa, my parents made me help wrap the gifts on Christmas Eve.”

“And your siblings could not tell by the horrible wrapping jobs that someone else had done it?”

McCree smacks him on shoulder with the back of his hand. “Ass. And I doubt it, since they were too busy tearin’ into everything to notice.”

He leans back against the futon beside Hanzo, shifting until he’s comfortable. His shoulder leans against Hanzo’s, warm and solid. A soft smile comes across his face. “Me and Dad would always be the ones to go get the tree, before he died,” he says. “It was our thing. There was this one lot we would always go to because it was like a fundraiser for the local high school, and he wanted to support them. My brother and sister started coming the last couple years, but it was still kind of the thing Dad and I did. Had to pick the perfect tree. Could take us almost an hour sometimes, but we’d always find the right one eventually.”

Hanzo smiles, too, amused by the image of an eight-year-old McCree scrutinizing a row of Douglas firs for the one that would earn the honor of going home. “That sounds lovely.”

“It was nice, yeah. Almost miss it sometimes.” He sighs wistfully. “Things were hard those last few years, but we still had some good things, too.”

A companionable silence falls between the two of them, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the grate and the gentle rustling of blankets as they drink. After a few minutes, McCree gets to his feet, one hand clasping his mug and the other tugging his blankets tight around his throat. He moves over to the window, through which the last slivers of silvery daylight can be seen as the sun disappears beyond the frozen horizon. He leans up against the wall, looking out into the snowy landscape. 

“Always did like the snow,” he says. 

“Oh?”

“We got some in Santa Fe, but not a whole lot. Was still a desert, after all. Always felt kind of special when it did happen.”

“We got a lot of snow in Hanamura. It was more trouble than it was worth, most of the time.”

“You and Genji must have had some kind of snowball fights.”

Hanzo chuckles. “We did, on one or two occasions. They were rather intense once we were a few years into our training. It was probably for the best that our father stopped the game before we were old enough to really hurt each other.”

“Really? For us, it wasn’t a good game until someone actually got hurt.”

“I am not saying we did not hurt each other at all.”

McCree laughs. “Now that sounds like what I’d expect.” He smiles out the window. “My sister had a good arm. Had to be more careful with our brother--he was six years younger than me, my sister was only two--but Silvia, at least, could hit pretty hard. I think she used to use snowball fights as a chance to get back at me, ‘cause during the rest of the year, I was just bigger than her and she couldn’t do a thing about it.”

“Genji did the same thing.” Hanzo wrinkles his nose at a particular memory. “He was particularly fond of climbing things. Or trying to shove snow down my pants.”

“ . . . Was he successful?”

“Once. He did not try again after that.”

McCree doesn’t even try to hide his laughter, and Hanzo can’t help joining in. Embarrassing family stories or no, it is hard to resist when McCree is clearly so pleased. 

McCree watches the snow fall out the window for a little while longer, soon losing himself in thought. After a little while, Hanzo takes out his phone and spends some time browsing news articles and emails--though the electricity is out, cell phone data is, thankfully, still going strong.The safehouse is still freezing and he hardly dares to expose any part of himself to the air for more than a second; he realizes he probably looks ridiculous, huddled under two blankets with his phone like a child, but it is far preferable to the alternative.

However, despite the cold and the isolation, despite having little to do other than wait out the blizzard, it’s almost enjoyable. The fire is cozy, and the crackling of the flames fills the silence in the safehouse. The whiskey is cheap, but it’s tasty enough, and his head is pleasantly light with the buzz of alcohol. McCree refills their cups at some point with fresh whiskey, then goes back to the window without a word. Even in silence, McCree’s presence is comforting, the situation made better merely by being in the same room with Hanzo. 

McCree has a way of doing that nowadays: making things just a little more bearable by nothing more than existing. 

Perhaps twenty minutes pass. When Hanzo looks up again, night has fallen completely, and the only light now comes from the fire. McCree remains by the window, a dark silhouette edged by the firelight. Still, even in the dimness, Hanzo can see the deep frown on McCree’s face that had not been there previously.

“McCree?” he asks, his stomach running cold. “Are you alright?

“Yeah. Just thinking.” The answer comes only after a moment, his voice hollow and distant. Hanzo is unconvinced, and he waits, knowing his patience will be rewarded if it is something McCree truly wishes to discuss. 

Finally, the answer comes. “I lied,” McCree sighs, still looking out the window. 

“About?”

“Worst Christmas. That was actually the one after my dad died.”

Hanzo’s breath catches in his chest, but he is careful to maintain a neutral face. “I . . . see.”

McCree is silent for a long moment. His frown deepens.

“It wasn’t--” He stops, shakes his head. “I wasn’t home. I don’t know really know what it was like havin’ Christmas without my dad. He died earlier in the year, and by the time Christmas hit, I’d already gone to the Deadlocks, so it would’ve just been my ma and my brother and sister.”

McCree taps his thumb against the side of the mug. Hanzo watches him quietly, attentive. “All the shops were closed for Christmas,” McCree says, “so we just--went out and robbed ‘em all. Every damn thing we could fit in our pockets. Out there it was a lot of mom-and-pop type shops, the kind of places that couldn’t just write it off and get new stuff. People were devastated the next day when they went back to work and everything was gone, or destroyed. Probably ruined a few livelihoods. Made the news that night and everything.”

He blows out a breath. “I felt a little bad, but at that point I was pretty used to how we did things in the Deadlocks. But it was . . . The Deadlocks didn’t exactly have cute family traditions. No trees or mistletoe or shit like that. And it was my first year away from my family, and I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how much I missed all that. For the first time in months, I really missed being home.”

He stares down into his cup for a long moment, gently swirling the contents. “Probably about the time I started to hate the holidays,” he says quietly. “Even in Overwatch, we celebrated when we could but it never quite felt the same. I’d always start thinkin’ about before. I’ve accepted my past for what it is, at least as much as I can, but I can never quite shake those first few years.”

Hanzo watches him from his seat on the floor, at an utter loss. McCree glances back at him, then grimaches and wipes a hand down his face.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Didn’t mean to get all morose on you. Don’t mind me.”

“Do not apologize. I understand.”

McCree sighs again, tips back the rest of his drink, and goes to refill. The flask must be close to empty by now, Hanzo thinks, and his suspicions are confirmed when McCree tips the flask over his cup, and perhaps an ounce of liquid pours out. He mutters a curse and drops the empty flask beside the fireplace.

“The Christmas after Genji’s death was difficult, too,” Hanzo says. The words leave his mouth before he is aware of thinking them.

McCree glances back at him, indicating he’s listening. Hanzo continues with a mild shrug. “Again, the holidays hold a different meaning, and our family was never inclined to celebrate it once we were older. Still, there was a sense of family and togetherness to it, and it had only been a few months since . . . what I thought had been his death, rather.”

McCree ambles back over to the futon and drops himself onto the floor beside Hanzo. His shoulder presses against Hanzo’s, solid even through several layers of blankets, and his knee knocks against Hanzo’s thigh and stays there. Hanzo stumbles over his next words. “I--um, do not recall much of that Christmas. I got very drunk in a motel somewhere in Hong Kong.” McCree huffs a laugh. “But I remember thinking of Genji for most of it. Remembering how he would brag about his dates, and try to get me to go with him to every party to find someone. How often we argued since our father’s death. How I hated his dates and the way he viewed Christmas Eve, but how I would give anything for him to be there, begging me to sneak out of the house again.”

He lets out a heavy breath. “It became easier as the years passed, as most things did. But I do remember that one.”

McCree hums an agreement. A moment passes, and he asks, “You ever think it would be different?”

Hanzo blinks. “Different?” he repeats. “About . . . the holidays?”

McCree chews on the inside of his lip. “You know,” he says, “I never really fancied myself a family man. Never thought I’d end up with the house in the suburbs, the picket fence and the two-point-five kids or nothin’. But I guess I thought I’d be doin’ better than this. Gettin’ drunk every year on Christmas in some different part of the world. Y’know?”

“Many people would envy getting to travel.”

McCree snorts, briefly amused. “Maybe.” But the amusement quickly fades, and he drops his gaze the dregs of whiskey in his cup. “I think,” he says, “that’s what really gets me this time of year. Just realizing that I don’t have . . . well, anything. No family, no sweetheart, no nothin’. And knowing that I did that to myself.”

Hanzo nods once. He grips his cup tightly between both hands, fighting the urge to throw his arms around McCree until he realizes just how much he is cared for. 

“I know the feeling,” he says instead.

McCree smiles humorlessly at his cup. “We’re just a couple of fools, aren’t we,” he says.

“Perhaps we were, once,” Hanzo agrees. “But our mistakes were many years ago. Yours more than mine. You have told me countless times how the past no longer matters, if we are working to atone and to better ourselves.”

“Yeah, I know.” McCree says, but he looks unconvinced. He pulls the blankets tighter around his shoulders. Hanzo’s chest aches. 

“McCree,” he says, nudging his knee against his companion’s, “you are not the mistakes you made. You know this. And even in the absence of your family, you are not alone. You have friends. Teammates.” He hesitates. “Me.”

McCree finally looks at him again, and Hanzo has to force himself to finish speaking. He rests a hand on McCree’s shoulder. “I will not tell you the last few years have not been difficult. But things are different now. I realize I am not the most reliable person to tell you these things, but it does not change the facts. You are a good man, McCree, and eventually you will be rewarded as you deserve.”

McCree glances down at the hand on his shoulder, then back at Hanzo. Some of the distress knitting his brow seems to give way to surprise. “Thanks, Han,” he says, weary but sincere. “That helps. A little.” He tries to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and he only looks more tired for the effort. 

Hanzo takes back his hand, wracking his brain for anything he could do or say. He comes up with nothing else. There is little he can do or say to take away the pain of years of self-inflicted isolation, or the mistakes that led to it. 

All he can do is try to convince him that the rest might be better.

“Wait here,” Hanzo says, standing quickly. McCree looks at him oddly as he moves across the room and digs through his gear. He moves aside an extra shirt and a box of spare arrowheads, uncovering his prize: the flat, gift-wrapped box he has kept hidden. He hesitates for a moment, but takes out the box, goes back to his seat, and offers the box to McCree in an outstretched hand. 

McCree glances between Hanzo and the offering a few times. “What’s this?”

“A gift,” Hanzo says, a little indignant in spite of himself with the apparent surprise. “For you.”

The gift is a new whiskey flask: stainless steel polished to a flawless shine, wrapped a band of satin-soft black leather. Simple and practical, and in theory, thoughtful enough that McCree would enjoy it but not so much so that Hanzo would tip his hand. Hanzo watches as McCree unwraps it, his heart in his throat, and waits for what seems like inevitable disappointment.

But when McCree opens the box, his eyes widen, and he gives a low whistle of approval. “I’ll be damned,” he says, not unhappily, as he lifts the flask out of the wrapping paper.

Relief crashes over Hanzo so heavily that he thinks his knees will give. “You like it, then? Your current one seemed a bit old, so I thought . . .”

McCree turns the flask over and back within the box. “Yeah,” he says. “This is real nice, Hanzo. Thank you.”

He stares down for a long moment at the flask, running his fingers over the smooth leather. Then he laughs, weak and resigned, and shakes his head. “I can’t believe this,” he says. “I’m sittin’ here whining about how _ lonely _ I am, and here you give me the most thoughtful thing anyone’s given me in years.”

“It is fine. You cannot--”

“ _ No,  _ it really isn’t,” McCree interrupts with a deep sigh. “No, it’s not. I’m sorry. We’re still technically out here on a mission, and you don’t deserve to be trapped in here with me while I’m bein’ a whiny ass.”

He sets the flask and box aside, then reaches out to grip Hanzo's shoulder. His gaze is intense, locked with Hanzo’s as he says, “Thank you, Hanzo. I mean it.”

Flustered, Hanzo barely keeps his voice even as he replies, “You are welcome.”

McCree nods once, satisfied, and gives Hanzo’s shoulder a tight squeeze before he lets go. The warmth of his grip lingers, even through Hanzo’s coat and blankets, and it causes a similar burst of not-unpleasant heat low in his gut.

Then, before he can recover, McCree sits back. He digs something out of the side pocket of his pack and says, “That reminds me--I was gonna give this to you tomorrow, but I guess there's no sense in waiting now.” He pulls out a crinkled, paper-wrapped parcel and hands it to Hanzo with a sheepish look. “Sorry, didn't have time for a real good wrapping job, but that ain't the part that matters.”

“You did not have to--” Hanzo starts, but McCree cuts him off with a shake of his head. 

“Neither did you,” he says. “Just open the thing, would you?”

Hanzo does, peeling back the paper to reveal a slightly battered shipping box, within which he finds two black paper bags with plastic zip tops. The bags are stamped with the image of a stylized sakura blossom, which Hanzo recognizes instantly as the logo of a tea shop he used to frequent--years ago, in Hanamura.

“How did you get--?”

“Internet.”

“But how did you know?”

McCree shrugs one shoulder in affected nonchalance. “You mentioned it once. Knew you wouldn’t want just some dumb trinket, and I remembered you talkin’ about that shop.”

“I told you about that shop  _ once.  _ Months ago.”

McCree ducks his head sheepishly. “Yeah, well, I got a head for silly details like that. Black-ops thing.”

Hanzo opens one of the bags and sniffs at the contents. The tea is aromatic and sweet, ginger and green tea leaves and a host of other flavors he hasn’t tasted together in over eleven years. 

“So’s that . . . okay?” McCree asks, when Hanzo is quiet for too long a moment. “I admit I don’t know shit about tea, I just picked a couple green ones that didn’t look too weird, so if it’s not--”

Hanzo swallows around the lump of emotion that has risen in his throat. “It’s perfect,” he says, slightly strangled. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.”

McCree sits back, rearranging himself comfortably under blankets and resting against the futon. Hanzo stares down at the bags of tea in his lap for another moment, not trusting himself to so much as speak. Eventually, he sets them aside, and he tries to sit back beside McCree, but he cannot relax. His mind is racing, and his gut aches, and his chest is tight. He doesn’t know if he’s overwhelmingly happy or distraught. Both, perhaps: elated by the gift, full of love for a man who thinks he deserves to be alone, but pained at the knowledge that those feelings are his alone.

He reminds himself, again and again, that McCree does not, could not care for him. Not in that way. A gift does not mean anything, other than a gesture between friends. 

But he is not entirely convinced anymore. 

“Y’know what?” McCree says after a minute, evidently unaware of Hanzo’s distress. He gives Hanzo a lazy smile. “This ain’t half-bad for a Christmas Eve after all.”

It takes Hanzo just a second too long to respond. “No? I would still not consider it my best.”

“Well, no, I’d still rather be just about anywhere but this frozen hellhole. But the company’s alright. Best I could ask for, really.”

Hanzo’s breath sticks in his throat as he meets McCree’s gaze. There’s a faint, distant sadness etched in the lines of his face, something Hanzo can’t quite identify, but his smile is kind and sincere. In the light of the fire, his eyes gleam a shade of gold to match the whiskey they’ve been drinking. 

Hanzo swallows hard, leans in, and quickly, briefly, presses his lips to McCree’s.

To call it a kiss would be a misnomer. It’s barely a bump, done in a fraction of a second, but the intent is clear enough. Hanzo holds his breath as he sits back, the full realization of what he’s just done trickling through the haze of alcohol and intimacy clouding his head. 

“ _ Kuso _ ,” he mutters, leaning away quickly. “I--”

“Don’t you dare,” McCree says with a sudden vehemence. He leans back into Hanzo’s space, eyes boring into his. “Don’t you dare tell me that was an accident.”

Alarmed, Hanzo can only shake his head. No words come to him. McCree seems to realize his intensity and, with a little sigh, says, “Please. Just tell me that meant something.”

Hanzo swallows, works his jaw, tries to find anything to say. “It did,” he whispers.

One side of McCree’s mouth turns up in a lopsided, nervous smile. “Really?”

“Yes.” It’s all Hanzo can do to force the words out. 

“Shit, Hanzo--” McCree slips on the blankets as he turns to face him but is back up immediately, kneeling so that he can push more easily into Hanzo’s space. A long, breathless moment hangs between them. He reaches out a hand, slowly, and gently cups Hanzo’s face  in his palm, and then they move together to close the last few inches between them and meet in a proper, soft kiss. 

It is careful, at first: one gentle press of their lips, tentative, then another, more certain but no less sweet. The tip of McCree’s nose is cold as it presses into Hanzo’s cheek. His beard scrapes against Hanzo’s and is rough on his skin. Hanzo cannot think, cannot even comprehend anything outside of McCree’s touch, the addicting warmth of his mouth, the lingering taste of whiskey between them. He carefully threads a hand through McCree’s hair, daring to give into an urge he’s resisted for months, and McCree makes a tiny noise in his throat that lights a spark down Hanzo’s spine. 

When they break apart, Hanzo watches as McCree’s eyes slowly open, heavy-lidded, and it takes him a dazed second to meet Hanzo’s gaze. Hanzo feels a little burst of pride knowing that he is responsible.

“Wow,” McCree murmurs. His voice is rougher than a few moments ago. “I, uh. Gotta be honest, I didn’t expect that.”

“Neither did I. I . . . had not intended to do that, truthfully.”

“I’m glad you did.” 

Hanzo’s stomach flutters with an even mix of nerves and hopeful anticipation. “So you are okay with this,” he says carefully. 

“Okay with it? Shit, I’ve been thinkin’ about this for  _ months _ . I’m more than just  _ okay _ with it.” McCree laughs softly, disbelieving. 

Hanzo stares. “Months?” he repeats. 

“Yeah. It’s, uh, a little embarrassing how long this has gone on. At least on my end.” McCree drops his gaze for a moment, suddenly seeming nervous. “But you . . . said it meant something, too. Right?”

Perhaps it is the alcohol he’s consumed, or adrenaline still lingering from his initial fear, or simply the realization that McCree feels the same, but Hanzo doesn’t hesitate at all as he replies, “Yes. Of course.”

McCree’s nervous smile widens to a crooked, dazzling grin that nearly stops Hanzo’s heart in his chest. Before he can say anything else, McCree pulls him into another kiss, and Hanzo can feel that smile pressed against his own lips. 

It’s a little easier the second time, now that they are both certain of where they stand. McCree kisses him as though it is his only chance, as though all of this will be taken away if he does not take his fill now--and despite everything that now tells him otherwise, Hanzo can’t help but feel the same. He tightens his grip in McCree’s hair, presses in harder, tries to imprint on McCree everything he feels in this one simple act. McCree sighs softly against his mouth, and parts his lips under the tentative flick of Hanzo’s tongue, and Hanzo suddenly can’t get enough.

Hanzo pushes into McCree’s space, and McCree welcomes him, wrapping his arms around Hanzo’s middle and pulling him as close as they can get without being in each other’s laps. Hanzo loops an arm around McCree’s neck, and in doing so, the blankets around McCree’s shoulders slip to the floor. McCree immediately breaks away with a startled laugh.

“ _ Fuck _ , that’s cold,” he says, laughing as he gropes around behind himself for the blankets with one hand while trying to keep Hanzo close with the other. “Damn, just--hold on, come here--”

He pulls Hanzo up against his side, ripping off the mess of blankets between them. Hanzo lets himself be pushed around and adjusted until McCree is satisfied that they will both be comfortable, and at the end he finds himself tucked against McCree’s side with an arm around his shoulders, both of them cocooned in blankets and serape. McCree settles in with a content sigh.

“There,” he says, “that’ll do for now.” He turns to look at Hanzo as though to say something else, but the words never come, and instead he just looks at Hanzo with a soft, faintly awestruck expression.

“What?” Hanzo asks, when it seems McCree will not say anything at all.

“Nothin’. Just . . .” McCree chuckles quietly, his gaze flickering down between them. “Five minutes ago, I was sitting here thinking about how badly I wanted this, knowing it wouldn’t happen. And now suddenly it has. Sorta keep expecting to wake up and find out I actually  _ did _ get real drunk and pass out somewhere.”

“Well, the night is still young.” McCree laughs aloud, and Hanzo barely resists kissing him again. “But no. The last time I checked, I was not a drunken hallucination.”

“Can’t say I’d mind if my drunken hallucinations were as handsome as you.” Hanzo swats him lightly on the shoulder and McCree playfully recoils, but he sobers again quickly. “But, honestly . . . I’ve thought about this awhile, longer than I care to admit, but I didn’t think we’d end up here any time soon.”

Hanzo spends a moment carefully choosing his next words. “Nor did I,” he says slowly. “I did not think you would want this, either. Foolish, I realize now. But,” he continues, before McCree can respond, “perhaps we should not focus on that tonight.”

McCree tilts his head a little, questioning. Affection swells in Hanzo’s chest at the sight, bright and warm. “There is much to talk about,” he concedes, “but there will be time for that later. For now . . . we have had many unhappy holidays, between us. Perhaps we could focus on enjoying what we have this year.”

McCree licks his lips, a flash of pink against tan, and Hanzo’s eye is automatically drawn to the movement. He has to remind himself to look up again. “You know,” McCree says, “that sounds pretty damn good to me.”

He pulls Hanzo closer, so that he is all but tucked against his side, and rests his head against Hanzo’s. “Soon as we get outta here, I’m gonna treat you right,” he says. “Only so much I can do here with ten tons of snow and a flask of whiskey, but I'll make it right."

“Mm, I do believe that you owe me a proper Christmas Eve outing now. I am a little disappointed that you are making me wait.”

McCree huffs. “Well, it’s not quite over yet, but I think it’s gonna be a bit late by the time we’re done here.” He reaches to take Hanzo’s hand and holds it between them, loosely curling his fingers around Hanzo’s. “But we’ll do the whole thing, once we get back. Dinner, a show, a night on the town. Breakfast the next mornin’.”

“You have thought about this.”

“Way too much.”

Hanzo can’t stop himself from grinning, and tucks his face against McCree’s shoulder to hide it. 

They stay that way a while, curled up together under the blankets in front of the fire. Outside, the snow continues to fall, its pace only slightly diminished by time, and icy winds whistle past the windows. In a few hours, Hanzo and McCree will probably have to dig their way out of the safehouse to reach the shuttle that will take them out of Alaska and back to the Watchpoint that is, effectively, home. Perhaps they will back in time for the massive holiday dinner Reinhardt promised. Perhaps not. But for now, everything is quiet, and for a time there is nothing to worry about at all.  

Hanzo doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep, lulled into a doze by the comforting crackling of the fire and the warmth shared between the two of them, until McCree starts speaking and jolts him back to wakefulness. He doesn’t hear what was said, but he does hear McCree’s soft, fond laugh. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “Didn’t mean to startle ya. Was just gonna say that it’s gettin’ late and you should get some shut-eye, but it looks like you’re already workin’ on it.”

“M’sorry,” Hanzo groans. He starts to sit up, but McCree tightens his arm around his shoulders.

“Listen, I can’t think of a single bad thing about you fallin’ asleep on me,” McCree interrupts gently. “‘Sides, one of us needs to stay up and watch the fire for a bit, keep an ear out for Winston. I can do that for a couple hours.”

“Are you certain?”

“More than anything. Go back to sleep, Han. I’ll wake you up when it’s your turn.”

Awkwardly, Hanzo resettles, resting his head against McCree’s shoulder. It feels strange to do this deliberately, but exhaustion tugs at his limbs, and the worn flannel of McCree’s shirt is satiny soft under his cheek; it takes surprisingly little time for the tension to melt away.

He watches the snow fall outside the window for a minute or two, where the flakes spin and drift in aimless patterns, at the whims of the wind until they reach their brethren below.  McCree rubs a hand up and down Hanzo’s arm in a soothing, constant motion. Periodically, the rise and fall of McCree’s chest as he breathes will partially block his sight. Somewhere, distantly, the fire snaps loudly, and a log shifts and thunks against another. The hand on Hanzo’s arms disappears, and then he feels fingertips brush a piece of hair away from his forehead, and hears McCree whisper a faint, awed, “ _ Wow.” _

Hanzo closes his eyes and drifts back to sleep in no time at all.


End file.
